


Fidus

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 22:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14223342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: A day in the life of Shiki Haruya, yakuza boss, and Orihara Izaya, knife nut and amateur vampire specialist.





	Fidus

**Author's Note:**

> some ideas rather shamelessly stolen from varrix.  
> #sorrynotsorry
> 
> also, thanks, steph, for looking it over because i can't spell.

It’s actually fairly easy to break into Shiki’s apartment.

All you have to do is seduce the neighbor above him. Then slip into her bathroom for a quick ‘refresher,’ and slip out her bathroom window.

From there, it’s just a quick shimmy down a convenient drainpipe to Shiki’s living room window, inset just enough for a few nice toeholds and handgrips.

Just pop the lock on the window, and boom, you’re in. 

Simple.

Well.

He would be.

If Shiki didn’t keep resetting the lock every time he jimmed it open. 

“You have a key,” Shiki tells him through the glass, not nearly as impressed as Izaya thinks he should be.

“I’m testing your apartment security,” Izaya tells him, toes starting to cramp, just a little. “This would be nothing for a vampire. You’re vulnerable, you know.”

Shiki takes a thoughtful swig from his mug. Izaya swears he can smell the soul-curling blend that Shiki prefers through the glass. “How do you recommend I vampire-proof my apartment, then?”

There’s a distinct burning in Izaya’s right hand that speaks of muscle failure in the near future. He tries not to let it show. Wolves can smell weakness. “Let me in, and I’ll give you some ideas.” 

“You’re already out there. I think now would be the perfect opportunity to test your ideas. Unless you want to come in through the front door?”

Izaya gives Shiki his best Innocent Grin. 

Shiki looks immediately suspicious. 

Drats.

“Well, you see,” Izaya starts. “I came in through your neighbors. She might be expecting a wild night of passionate jungle sex, hard to tell. And you  _ know  _ how I hate to disappoint.” 

Shiki gives him a long look over the rim of his coffee mug. 

For three whole seconds, Izaya thinks that Shiki might have caught his bluff, that his sexual experience with women amounts to ‘once in high school someone flashed me and I still haven’t gotten over it.’

He’d  _ leave,  _ because he has a reputation and all, but. Still.

But Shiki pops the lock on the window and Izaya does his very best to look like he’s not collapsing inwards.

He’s sure he does an excellent job, but Shiki’s smirking all the same.

Whatever. 

“You’re home early,” he says instead. 

“It’s past eleven,” Shiki says, as if he’s not still wearing his god-awful white suit pants and drinking a cup of coffee. Like he just didn’t just get home himself.

“Like I said, early.”

“Somethings wrapped up earlier than I thought they would.”

“Oh?” Izaya says, sauntering towards the kitchen, aiming for casual and not starved animal. “What’s that?”

“Nothing of interest to you, I’ll sure.” Shiki says, watching Izaya scan the contents of his fridge for something microwavable or can be eaten cold or raw. There’s a sad apple hiding in the back that’s pretty tempting. “Have you eaten?”

“At least once in my life, yes.”

Shiki ignores him. “In the past twelve hours?”

Izaya has to think. Where was he twelve hours ago. That would be…11 am, right? He’s a busy man. He’s done a lot since then. Eating is not one of those things.

“Hm. No.”

“Lucky for you, I haven’t either.” 

That means either one of two things.

Pizza. Which is fine _.  _

Or Shiki’s cooking. Which is  _ great _ . 

Izaya scans the counter, looking for the indicator.

There, huddling next to the sink, a single onion. 

Shiki’s cooking.

Nice.

Shiki move him out of the way of the fridge, pulling out meat, along with something that looks like a vegetable Izaya once saw in a book when he was like, five.

Izaya hops up on the counter, content to watch Shiki pull out pans and cutting boards and a truly impressive array of knives. 

He’s not jealous, because pocket knives and cooking knives are completely different animals, but they’re so  _ shiny  _ and  _ sharp.  _ And shimmer in the light the way only good metal does. 

But they’re not branded the way consumer knives are. 

He’ll have to ask Shiki where he got them, those are nice knives. 

But he’s not allowed to cook because Shiki apparently likes the kitchen as it is, thank you very much.

“It’s odd,” Izaya says, banging his heels against the cabinet below.

“What’s odd?”

“That cooking food doesn’t raise it’s calorie count.”

Shiki’s doing something to a bell pepper. Which is odd, because Shiki  _ hates  _ bell peppers. Maybe it’s an anger management thing.“Why would it do that?”

“Because, when you think about it, heat is energy. And calories are energy. So, adding heat should raise the total energy, thus, more calories.”

“Concerned with your weight again? Because I guarantee microwaving food won’t make you fat.”

Izaya frowns. “No.” 

Yes. 

“But don’t the chemical properties of food change when it cooks? Proteins denature. And things. Takes energy to do that.”

Izaya frowns. “That’s true.”

“Cooking meat helps burn of fats and things. Wouldn’t that make it  _ less  _ calories to cook food?”

Izaya’s head is starting to hurt and something from high school chemistry is starting to nag from the far depths of his consciousness, but it slides away when he tries to catch it. 

He really should have eaten. 

Ah, well, he was busy. 

“Maybe. I guess it depends how you cook it.”

“If you’re so concerned about becoming fat from eating cooked things,” Shiki says, pulling out a pan, “why don’t you go vegetarian? Raw carrots. Cucumbers.”

Shiki walks by, popping a carrot in Izaya’s mouth as he goes. “Here, something hard and long for you to suck on.”

Izaya clamps his teeth down, the carrot making a satisfying  _ snap.  _ “How kind of you.”

“Just making sure you don’t starve.” There’s the sizzle of cold meat hitting a warm pan, and the pleasant, heady smell of cooking garlic.

Izaya hops off the counter to get closer to that wonderful smell, coming up behind Shiki and peering over his shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Pork curry.”

“Ooh.”

“Stop hovering. There’s beer in the fridge.” 

“Trying to get me drunk? That’s not very sporting of you,” Izaya says even as he grabs two beers, popping the cap with his trusty knife.

He’s pretty sure Shiki doesn’t actually own a bottle opener, uses his teeth pull the cap off to reaffirm he’s a yakuza badass. 

“You don’t  _ have  _ to drink. The beer’s for me.”

“Drinking alone is the sign of a problem.”

“How thoughtful of you to make sure I don’t, then.”

“What can I say, I’m a giver.”

Shiki says nothing.

But very  _ pointedly.  _

Fucking  _ rude.  _

The beer’s  _ okay.  _ Not great, but not terrible, either. Shiki’s drinking his like it’s some sort of obligation he must bear. Probably is, alcohol tolerance only comes through exposure. 

Can’t say no to a well-meant cup of whiskey, it’s against the social rules.

But can’t lose your head either.

Tricky, tricky. 

“Dinner’s ready,” Shiki says, pulling down two plates and spooning things on to them, walking the five feet to the kitchen table. 

Shiki  _ has  _ a dining room table.

Izaya knows, because one time he set up camp there, an array of computers and cellphones and print documents fanning five feet in every direction.

He thinks it’s the most action that table’s seen in six years.

But the kitchen table is where most eating happens, a round thing that mail appears and disappears off of and keys get set on. There are two chairs, but barely enough room under them for four legs, and Izaya’s legs tangle with Shiki’s as they eat.

Because the table is tiny. 

“It’s good,” Izaya says, because it is and positive reinforcement is good if you want that behavior to continue. 

There, one semester of Human Behavior summed up in one sentence.

He knew that college education was worth it.

He could have told you that without going, but apparently it’s not  _ real  _ until a grad student in some university runs an experiment with bribed undergrads and bad premises. 

“What’s got you scowling over there?”

“The state of academia.” 

“What about it?”

“That you can’t lock babies alone in a room and see what happens.” 

“They’d die.”

Izaya glares up at Shiki. It’s probably ruined by how fast he’s shoveling food into his mouth, but the sentiment is there. “But suppose they didn’t. Suppose they develop independently of adults and make their own culture and language. Would they even walk? Is walking natural or a learned behavior? Would they even talk?”

“Wild children who don’t learn to speak by five can’t,” Shiki says, eating at a much more sedate pace. “I don’t think they would.”

“But wild children live with  _ wolves _ . These babies would live with other human babies, maybe they would. Too bad we can’t.”

“I’m sure you could, somewhere.”

“Someone could, somewhere,” Izaya agrees, “I’m busy.”

“What with?”

“Oh, this and that. A lot happens here, you know. So many cogs in the clock. So many drugs to be smuggled, weapons to be redistributed.” 

There’s no more food on his plate. He’s pretty sure  _ he  _ didn’t eat it all. He resists checking under the table to see if he dropped it.

“There’s more on the stove.”

Izaya doesn’t fling himself out of his seat, because he always moves with grace. But he does take the rest of the curry, because Shiki subscribes to the ‘Minimum Food Maximum Output’ Diet and probably lives off the despair of his subordinates and being better than everyone else. 

And coffee.

If Izaya hadn’t seen him bleed, he would have sworn that the man only had coffee running through his veins. 

He’s still not sure that wasn’t an elaborate set-up. 

“So, what about these drugs and weapons?” Shiki says when Izaya sits back down, taking a swig from his beer. 

Izaya chews thoughtfully. “Alright, I’ll tell you. But only this once.”

“I’m honored.”

“So this guy is trying to move about ten kilos of speed into Tokyo from Macau, right? Because for some reason, the drug market in Ikebukuro is  _ small, _ ” Shiki’s jaw tightens a little and he takes another swig from his beer. “So he gets it in, it’s fine. He starts distributing it, no problem.” Izaya shovels a few more bites in. “And then he gets knifed in a back alley because he’s been selling crushed acetaminophen tablets as speed.” Izaya pauses. “Or maybe it’s just cause he was selling drugs on Akabayashi’s turf. Who knows.”

“Did you do that on purpose?” Shiki says, fiddling with the rim of his beer bottle. 

“No,” Izaya lies. “Sometime fate just goes that way. But the fun part is the way he smuggled it in.”

“Oh?”

“Rubber ducks.”

“What?”

“He used rubber ducks.”

“How?”

“How do you think?”

Shiki looks unconvinced. 

Oh well. 

“Well, that was delicious,” Izaya says, making to go sit on the couch and fiddle with his phone. 

“Izaya, at least come help with the dishes.”

“Psyche.”

Shiki glances back over his shoulder. “That’s not how safe-words work.”

“Isn’t it? I thought I was supposed to say it if I wasn’t comfortable doing—”

“Not for real-life responsibilities, brat.” Shiki tosses a towel and it plasters itself over Izaya’s face. “Just dry.” 

“But I’m a  _ guest.” _

“And guests should be courteous and help clean.”

Izaya has washed exactly  _ one  _ glass his entire life and he plans to keep it that way, thank you. There’s nothing worse in life than cold, wet, slimy food touching your bare skin.

But Shiki’s  _ radiating  _ disappointment, and he probably won’t get any if he doesn’t.

So he does.

Reluctantly and with bad grace.

“Was it  _ entirely  _ necessary to use five knives?” Izaya grumbles, because this is taking a  _ long _ time, even if he does get to touch the pretty sharp things. 

“No,” Shiki tells him, sleeves rolled up to expose the reds and grays and blacks of his tattoos. It’s an odd sight, dish-soap bubbles clinging to the scales of a snake twining around his arm.“I did it because it would annoy you later.”

“Success.” 

Shiki lets Izaya free from his forced servitude only after the last pan is hanging in it’s pan-place.

Pan-hook.

Whatever. 

It doesn’t matter, because nowhere in the apartment is as interesting as where Shiki is, so Izaya toddles after him into the living room, where the Comfy Couch lives in front of the TV.

There’s the Torture Couch in the other room, the one that Shiki makes Akabayashi sit on and it’s an extended piece of performance art to watch Akabayashi shift like he’s checking his watch every five minutes in a futile attempt to get comfortable. 

 

Shiki pulls Izaya down on to his lap, and Izaya lets him, if a bit suspiciously. If he remembers right, Ruri is broadcasting a performance tonight.

There’s no way in hell he’s sitting through that.

“I have  _ Game of Thrones  _ recorded.”

“Ah.” Izaya shifts to make himself more comfortable, leaning more against Shiki’s chest. Tossing an arm here and here. Moving a knife or two. “Carry on.” 

It’s been a while, and Izaya’s lost track of whatever intricacies of the plot he might have once had, but it’s still entertaining, he supposes. Lots of tits. Many dragons. It’s hard to keep focused, but Shiki’s clearly absorbed, shifting forward slightly when it gets intense and settling back when it calms. Shiki must sense that Izaya’s not rapt with attention, because a hand comes up to play with his hair. Because Shiki plays  _ dirty.  _ It’s very soothing, the slow methodical tugs through his hair. Izaya isn’t entirely sure when he drifts off, but the TV’s off when he feels the world shift slightly, and he has a sense of being airborne.

“I’ll cut your balls off,” Izaya says, flailing awake at the speed of panic.

“I would hope not,” Shiki says.

“Oh, it’s you,” Izaya says, relaxing back into Shiki’s arms.

“Were you expecting someone else?”

Izaya cracks a suspicious eye up at him. “We live in a city full of vampires and dullahans. It could be anyone.”

“I see.”

He does not see.

But Izaya lets it go, because Shiki might drop him. He hasn’t yet, but it’s possible. 

Shiki’s bed is the  _ best  _ because it always somehow manages to always smell like freshly laundered sheets and feel like a cloud brought to earth. Izaya  _ doesn’t _ groan, because that’d be all sorts of pathetic, but it’s hard not to when you  _ sink  _ after being tossed onto a bed. 

Shiki works his shoes off, his socks. Izaya’s kind enough to lift his hips, letting his pants go straight off his hips, cool air hitting everywhere.

“No underwear?”

“Do you know what kind of lines it makes on your pants? Tacky.”

“Of course,” Shiki agrees, but he’s biting down a laugh, Izaya can tell. The shirt comes next, followed by all of his rings, set carefully on the nightstand.

“Want some pajamas, or will that ruin the line of the sheets?”

“Hysterical.”

“I dunno. I’d take them. Hate for a vampire to catch you naked and unawares.” 

“You’re taking this very lightly for someone who does regular dealings with a dullahan.” 

“I’m not sure what I’d do if I had to fight the dullahan as an adversary,” Shiki’s saying, rummaging around in his drawer, coming back with a pair of pajama bottoms. “She’s formidable, to say the least.”

“Legends say dullahans are terrified of gold,” Izaya curls his fingers through the chain at Shiki’s neck, pulling him down just the slightest bit. “I suppose you have nothing to worry about, then.”

“I suppose not,” Shiki says, planting his hands on either side of Izaya, looming over him. Because Izaya is a genius. And naked. 

Izaya tugs a little harder on the chain, lick his lips a little. Decides peering up from under his lashes is  _ too  _ much, might give him away.

Shiki comes down closer, closer, a breath away.

“You can  _ ask  _ for things,” he says, breath hot against Izaya’s mouth, before pulling away and sliding pajamas up Izaya’s legs with efficiency. 

Izaya does not pout, because that is  _ beneath  _ him and all that he stands for. 

“Go back to sleep, ‘Zaya,” Shiki says, walking back to the door. 

“You’re not going to join me?” Izaya pats the bed next to him. “This is one of my favorite beds, you know. And I have quite a few. You should actually use it, once in a while.”

“Not now. I have a few things to take care of.”

Izaya snorts unbelievingly, but dives under the cool sheets, snuggling in. 

“Goodnight.”

 

Shiki, true to his word, does come to bed eventually.

“It’s five in the morning,” Izaya grumbles as an arm snakes around his waist. 

“Mhm.”

“I was  _ dreaming.” _

“Good things?”

Izaya rolls so he’s pressed against Shiki’s chest, right about where…there it is. The butterfly. It’s truly a testament to the artist that inked it, glorious gradients of reds and purples through the wings, graceful lines and curves. It truly does look as if it’s in flight, swerving around the dragon that loops up and over Shiki’s shoulder, coiling further down his back. 

“Alright things. Odd things. Some cultures consider dreams to be gateways to the divine, you know?” Izaya traces idly over the lines of the butterfly.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Puts my dream about competing to be the world’s best breakdancer in a whole new light, doesn’t it? What do you think the gods are trying to tell me?”

“To pursue a better career path?”

“Hm. Funny.” Not that Izaya minds too much because there’s a hand stroking down his back and up, and it’s really very relaxing. 

 

Izaya wakes up again at eight to the sound of the shower, because apparently sleep is for the weak and other people. 

Well, it’s an invitation if he’s ever heard one. 

He shuffles over to the bathroom, leaving Shiki’s pants behind as he goes. It’s not steamy quite yet, means Shiki might have just got in. 

Excellent. 

Izaya slips in to the shower with the smallest crack he can make in the door. 

“Good morning,” he greets, trying to throw as much sunshine and cheer around as he can. 

“Morning,” Shiki greets, looking like he’d really rather be dead. “Can I help you.” 

“I sure hope so,” Izaya says, pressing close against Shiki’s front, skin to skin, feeling the water start to plaster his hair to his head. It’s not a good look on him, but Shiki’s not looking to see if his hair style’s holding up. He’s brushing his hands up Izaya’s thighs to settle on his waist, and flicking his thumbs over the curve of Izaya’s hip. And his eyes are tracking the water trailing down Izaya’s neck, and he’s licking his lips.

Izaya twines his arms over Shiki’s shoulders, around his neck.

And gives a gentle tug.

Shiki comes down easily this time.

The water makes Shiki’s skin slick and easy to trace and run over, feel the muscles of his shoulders move under his skin as he moves his arms. 

Shiki likes kissing. Seems to enjoy the slide of tongues around each other, and sucking on Izaya’s tongue, and biting lips gently, so gently.

Izaya…doesn’t.

He prefers to slide his way down Shiki’s neck, down to right before pale skin gives away to ink, and bite.

Hard.

It never fails to leave tiny little purple imprints, small things that take awhile to fade. Izaya much prefers to use Shiki’s shoulders as an anchor, to roll his body against Shiki’s, wet skin gliding over wet skin. Much prefers to dig his nails into Shiki’s shoulder for extra grip, and continue grinding forward even as Shiki pushes him back against the tile.

It’s always shocking, his shoulders hitting cool tile when Shiki is so warm in front of him. 

This is the part where Shiki grinds into him, hands running down his sides and clenching hard on his hips. 

Except. 

Shiki’s fiddling with something.

Something familiar.

“You keep lube in here? Get lonely without me?”

“No, you’re just predictable,” Shiki says, sliding Izaya’s thigh up the wall and holding it steady

He’s  _ offended _ . No more shower sex for—

Oh, you know what. Never mind. He forgot for a second how good at this Shiki was, how he kneads Izaya’s thigh as he pushes in slowly, slowly.

It burns, but in a pleasant way. The burn of exhausted muscles, a slow, gentle sort of burn. 

It’s so much better that way.

So much better when you feel just that slightest bit more full.

Shiki’s crowding him, in his space, and in him.

It’s fantastic.

Shiki is a great believer in going slow and dragging things out for as long as they’ll last.

It’s gratifying that he can’t seem to hold on to that, that he’s pounding in fast and hard.

Izaya moans, low and deep, just to see what’ll happen, fingernails digging harder into Shiki’s back. 

What happens is Shiki’s hand tightening on his thigh, his cock brushing against Shiki’s stomach as Shiki thrusts in  _ hard. _

Izaya groans because his throat won’t obey and he’s coming and Shiki is too, warmth he can feel.

Shiki’s careful sliding out, careful making sure Izaya has his balance as he slides away from the wall and sets Izaya back down on the slick floor. 

“Another successful shower romp with no broken bones.”

Shiki peers at him through a partly closed eye, massaging shampoo into his hair. “Have they ever ended in broken bones?”

“Remember when you said—”

“Not at all.”

“—that shower sex—”

“I have no idea.”

“—was just asking for—-”

“You’re making all this up.”

“—broken bones and concussions?”

“I have no such recollection.” Shiki shoves the shampoo at him. “Here, I got new shampoo.”

“Because  _ I  _ remember.” 

“It smells like lilacs, your favorite.”

“I hate lilacs.”

“My bad.”

Asshole. 

 

“Is wearing white suits required?”

He only asks because Shiki’s closet is a study in how many shades white can come in.

It’s a surprising number.

“No, I just like them. Like you and your. Abomination.” 

“My  _ coat?  _ It’s  _ practical.” _

“Not in the summer.” 

“The pockets.”

“There are other things that have pockets that aren’t hideous.”

“Sure, but I like this one.”

“Whatever make you happy.” Shiki’s pulling on his coat and toeing on his shoes. “I’ll be back around seven. I can bring dinner.”

It’s a question, not a question. There’s the implicit,  _ you can stay, if you’d like. _

“Will it be ootoro?”

“It might be.”

“Hm. I’ll think about it,” he says, as if he doesn’t feel warm and languid and like lounging on Shiki’s Comfy Couch all day.

“I’m off.”

And the door clicks shut behind him.

Too bad he’s an actual working man. 

He’s got spare clothes around here. Somewhere. 

Even a pair of boxers, because complaining about lines is all well and good, but there’s something to be said for security when you’re jumping from building to building.

Ah, he might need those today. He’s got business in Ikebukuro. 

He’d love to stay and play ‘find where Shiki’s moved his gun,’ but he’s got people to do, things to see.

Wait.

Other way ‘round.

Whatever.

He’s kinda tempted to shimmy back up into the neighbor’s window and act like no time has passed, but that comes with all sorts of time draws and effort and going up is so much more effort than going  _ down. _

So he leaves via the front door, pretending to not see the yakuza underlings being menacing and they pretend to not see him.

But one of them always seem to tell Akabayashi.

Fucker always  _ knows. _

Anyway.

His newest phone starts to beat a staccato rhythm, and that’s  _ definitely  _ Tsukumoya picking him up on the building security cameras coming out of Shiki’s suite. 

Izaya ignores him and meanders his way down to the financial district to meet with men in poorly-cut suits who just want to set their competition on fire and piss on the ashes. 

It’s very trite and dull, especially when their competitors have assets tied with Nebula and are essentially an unsinkable ship, but it might be fun to try.

Then he sits in a cafe with public wifi and torments the college moron running his old club.

It’s good fun, really, even if the chair is uncomfortable and the music seems to run to the ‘experimental Musak’ variety.

Around noon, one of his phones vibrates, a distinctive vibration pattern. Dot dash dash dot.

Morse code ‘P,’ for personal.

Also, apparently, for penis.

_ Can you still feel me, Izaya? _

_ Because I can remember the feel of you, wrapped around my cock. _

_ You look so pretty when you come. _

Someone’s in a meeting. 

_ I love seeing you stretched out around me, when you spread your legs wide because you can’t get enough.  _

Izaya sends back an eggplant.

Will Shiki get it?

Probably not.

Maybe he’ll have Akabayashi explain it to him!

Maybe he’ll use Google.

Boring.

Around three, he’s riding the subway when his phone vibrates again.

But it’s just Tsukumoya with a wikiHow article:  _ How to Sext  _ with a suggestion that he reply.

Around five, he’s lurking in an alleyway because one of his minion wanted a face-to-face meeting so he could try his hand at knifing Izaya when the Itch starts.

It starts in his shoulders, always his shoulders. The way they feel like they’re vibrating with the pent-up energy they contain.

By five thirty, it’s down to his legs, and he could run a marathon, but he’s decided to take the meandering route to Shiki’s.

By six thirty, he sees a car that would be excellent to steal and take for a joyride.

By seven, he’s back in Shiki’s apartment where he started. He even comes in via the front door instead of climbing up twelve stories of windows like he really wanted to do.

By nine, he’s tied to Shiki’s bed, because Shiki does not disappoint and really only made sure Izaya was fed and clean before herding him into the bedroom.

Izaya’s sure if he dislocated his thumb, he could get out of the restraints.

But that’s not the point of this exercise. 

Shiki gently pries his thighs apart, running his hands down from Izaya’s knees to his ass, kneading and squeezing. 

Which is nice and all, but not the hard fucking he’s really craving right now.

“This is nice, but I’d really like you to fuck me until I can’t walk straight.”

“Maybe later, if you’re still up for it.”

What’s  _ that  _ supposed to mean?

Shiki’s hand slide to under him, and he’s being hoisted up as Shiki’s head goes down.

Thumbs spread him wide, and he knows what to expect, what comes next. 

But it doesn’t.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks, not irritated.

“Yes,” Shiki says. “Is there something else I’m supposed to be doing?”

“Eating me out, that’s what. Or fucking me. Or  _ something. _ ”

“Alright, alright.”

Shiki’s there in an instant, shoving his tongue deep, swirling in, making truly obscene noises. 

There’s darting, and Shiki’s done this before, because he likes to glance over Izaya’s prostate, gently enough that Izaya can feel it, but not hard enough to  _ be _ enough.

But it’s enough to get Izaya completely, painfully turned on. 

If there’s anything Shiki is, it’s methodical. 

He moves on to Izaya’s feet, light touches up his legs, back down, around his cock, because Shiki is a  _ bastard,  _ light kisses up his stomach, back down.

“Haruya,” Izaya says as Shiki nuzzles into his hips and tugs on him fast and hard—

And then tugs sharply on his balls.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

It’s  _ that  _ sort of day, is it?

It is, in fact, that sort of day.

Izaya doesn’t know what time it is anymore. 

He’s painfully aware of every single square inch of his body, but most especially his poor dick, the cock ring coming out sometime….ago.

The anal beads shift and send him cross-eyed and remind him that there are other parts of him that need sympathy, too.

“Having fun there, ‘Zaya?” Shiki drawls.

Izaya is, in fact, having a blast.

“Hugnh,” Izaya says instead, because words are higher brain functions he’s not entirely in control of in the moment.

That’s when Shiki starts to unbuckle his belt.

And slide his pants off.

And the anal beads come out. One. At. A. Time. Each one brushing against his prostate on the way out, stretching him that bit more.

That’s when the cock ring comes off.

That’s when Izaya’s lifted by his hips off the bed.

That’s when Shiki starts to fuck him into the mattress.

Izaya’s. Not terribly aware of what’s going on past that point. 

He might have. Passed out. A little.

He  _ definitely  _ didn’t scream while coming, that’s ridiculous. 

But he’s fully conscious  _ now,  _ and running his fingers over the dragon on Shiki’s shoulder.

“Have a good day, ‘Zaya?”

“Mhm. Yup. Excellent.”

Sorta conscious. 

“Oh, really?”

Bastard.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, if you’re tired, I’m gonna—”

He is damn well  _ not. _

Izaya utilizes his parkour skills and flops his dead weight down over Shiki.

“I see.”

And Izaya thinks he just might. 


End file.
